


'Til Sweetness Makes Us Whole

by significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Autumn, Blow Jobs, Cooking, First Time, Hand Feeding, M/M, kitchen magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2653394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Inspired by "Like Water for Chocolate."  Michael is a celebrity chef.   Ever since his new Scottish pastry chef started, his restaurant has been more crowded than ever.  The most recent comments on Yelp have had one common theme: "food-gasms."</p><p>[now complete]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amai_kaminari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amai_kaminari/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [amai_kaminari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amai_kaminari/pseuds/amai_kaminari) in the [mcfassy_autumn_extravaganza_2014](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/mcfassy_autumn_extravaganza_2014) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  James/Michael
> 
> Inspired by "Like Water for Chocolate". Michael is a celebrity chef. Ever since his new Scottish pastry chef started, his restaurant has been more crowded than ever. The most recent comments on Yelp have had one common theme: "food-gasms".
> 
> Any rating is fine. No non-con between the leads, please. Anything consensual is fair game.
> 
> ...More to come! I hope you enjoy!

“And Michael, what will you be preparing for us today?”

Smile at the presenter, then smile at the camera. “Pumpkin risotto with root vegetables and crispy sage,” Michael says, hands busy, neatly slicing the top off a small pie pumpkin and hollowing out the inside. “It's perfect for autumn. Has that darkness, that wildness, thanks to the sage and the mushrooms, but it's balanced against sweet pumpkin and delicate grains. Try a chanterelle mushroom, Sabria? Hand-foraged. Picked them myself."

"And I'm sure you only choose the best." The breakfast telly presenter plucks one from the basket on the worktop in front of them and holds it up between two perfectly-manicured nails. The kitchen set has been staged to show off the beauty of the harvest; grapevine baskets overflow with parsnips, squash, glossy brown nuts, and of course mushrooms, while plump ripe pumpkins are scattered artistically about. 

"Guilty," Michael says, smiling again. All the ingredients he's actually cooking with came to the set with him this morning, in a brown canvas satchel slung over his shoulder. "The best, and the non-poisonous."

"That's right, viewers. We don't advise you pick your own mushrooms unless you've had the training Chef Fassbender has. And speaking of things Chef Fassbender can carry off that most of us can't -"

There's a mischievous glimmer in her eye, and Michael braces himself. He's been on Sabria Moeen's programme before, he likes and trusts her, he knows this is going to be fine, but he can still feel himself getting jittery the longer she holds the pause -

"Gutting a pumpkin while wearing a spotless white shirt. I'd have pumpkin splattered all over myself by now. What's your secret, Michael?"

"Ah, well." Michael's hands have never stopped moving; he pulls out a heap of pumpkin flesh now, and sets it to one side. "I have some experience with keeping kitchen messes where they belong. And you may have noticed -" he flashes a grin - "I've got my sleeves rolled up."

"Oh," Sabria says, letting her glance run over him with just the right touch of flirty appreciation. "Believe me, we've noticed. Right, viewers?"

It's a good shirt, and it looks good on him. That's why he put it on this morning. Just a simple white button-up, but it's perfectly fitted, shows off the trimness of his waist, the strength in his chest and arms. Especially with the sleeves rolled neatly above his elbows. It's good for the audience - potential diners all - to associate him, and by extension his kitchen, with neatness, cleanliness, and order; that's what the starched white is for. As is his freshly-shaven chin, and neatly-groomed hair.

The rest is for someone else. Who probably won't even see this. He’s probably tucked up in bed, sleeping off another long night in the restaurant kitchen spent turning out stunning dessert after stunning dessert. Michael doesn't even know enough about his private life to guess if he's sleeping it off alone.

But maybe he is. And maybe he's got the ITV app. Maybe, just maybe, he'll catch this later.

Michael tilts the hollowed-out pumpkin towards the camera so everyone can see the inside. "Wrap your pumpkin in a double layer of aluminum foil like so, then slide it on the top oven rack. Your chopped veggies go on the bottom rack -" he holds up a tray of parsnips and squash sprinkled with salt and freshly-ground pepper - "and you bake it all at 200 degrees, or gas mark 6, for about forty-five minutes to an hour."

"And you make the risotto while it's baking?"

"Yes. But take yourself a little break first, wait until your vegetables are nearly done. I like to let my risotto stand five minutes before serving, but no longer than that. It's better to let your veg get done early and hang out in the oven than your risotto to sit around on the stove."

"Good tip," Sabria says. "Good time for a glass of wine?"

"Definitely." From the set's second oven, Michael pulls out trays of already-baked pumpkins and roasted vegetables. "I made this risotto just before we came on air. Now I'll stuff the pumpkins, alternating vegetables and grains - I've used barley, because I feel it deepens the flavour, but you can certainly use risotto rice instead. Sprinkle with nuts and sage you browned while the veg was cooking, and there you are."

"Now, you're using walnuts, can you use other sorts of nuts?" Sabria makes a 'May I?' motion with her fingers, directed at the bowl of cooked nuts, and Michael nods. This is one of the things he likes about her: she never reaches into his food prep area unless invited.

"Absolutely you may," Michael says, while Sabria pops a toasted nut in her mouth. "Or no nuts at all. Walnuts just happen to be my favourite, but whatever yours is, use it."

"Ooh, that looks _gorgeous_ ," Sabria says, as he shows off the finished product. She looks at the camera. "I wish you all were here, because it smells gorgeous as well."

"Thank you. This is how it'll look if you come round and eat it at Farm Table, but I promise you, this risotto is every bit as delicious if you've skipped the pumpkin altogether and are stood in the kitchen eating straight out of the pot."

"That's more experience talking?"

"It is," Michael says, grinning. 

This is ITV, not the BBC with all their commercial content restrictions, so slipping a little plug for his restaurant into an autumn cooking segment is perfectly acceptable. And he expects Sabria to drop the name again at the end, and he keeps a pleasant smile going for the cameras while she does - "A big thank you to Chef Michael Fassbender, of the Farm Table restaurant in North London!" - but he's taken by surprise when she doesn't stop there.

"Michael, it's been such a pleasure having you on the show, we'd love to have you back sometime. And perhaps that new pastry chef of yours could come along? I've seen the reviews online, his food sounds very..." she's clearly searching for a breakfast telly-appropriate word.... "pleasurable?"

_Orgasmic_ is what most of the reviewers say. If they're not even more descriptive. Reviews for Michael's restaurant never tripped Yelp's decency filters before James came on staff. "That's what I hear.” 

“You mean you don't know?” 

“James is very protective of his food back in our kitchens - anything that's up to his standards goes to a customer, and anything that's not goes straight in the bin. I'm the only one he allows a taste.”

“Lucky you. Is that because you’re his favourite?”

Don’t blush. Keep the colour out of your face. _Don’t._ “Wouldn’t that be grand. No, only because I'm his boss and he has to. And even then...." Michael holds two fingers close together and shakes his head sadly. "That's all I get. Never more than a bite. I think it may be easier to get state secrets out of the Queen than a recipe out of James, but I'll ask him, Sabria. See if I hold any sway."

Sabria starts to reply, but then the theme tune starts, closing out the segment, and as planned they take matching bites of risotto for the cameras. Michael’s pulse is pounding. His adrenaline's always high after he's done a spot on air, but this this is different. 

He'd never intended to talk about James on camera today. Certainly never intended to flirt with him on air, but that's just what he's done, that sad head-shake, the little lift in his voice, _see if I hold any sway_.... 

James flirts like breathing with anyone who comes near his station, but Michael has never instigated it. Not once. He'd like to say it's because he's the one signing James' pay packet, and it wouldn't be right, but it's nothing so honourable as that. His mouth gets too dry when he's close to James. His heartbeat sounds too loud. He follows where James leads, that's what he's always done, and right now he's afraid he's bollocksed that up but good, because one thing James never does is talk about himself. Sure, Michael may not have said all that much, but he just said it in front of the entire nation.

When you talk about magic, it disappears. Everyone knows that. And maybe it sounds silly, but Michael knows what he feels when he stands next to James, when he watches him work, when his words fall on his ear, when his food dances on his tongue.

He hopes he hasn't broken the spell.


	2. Chapter 2

At this hour, the restaurant is hushed, expectant. Pale morning light spills in through the windows onto the long rustic tables that give the place its name. Made of wood reclaimed from old barns, they’ve been varnished and shellacked but are still full of character, riddled with knots and wormholes and old studded nails. The walls are panelled with honey maple as far up as the chair-rail, and above that they're painted the pale blue of a perfect summer sky limned by sun. Black and white landscape photographs highlight the sources of Michael's ingredients: a forest in Dorset, hillside pastures in Herefordshire, an orchard in Suffolk, and his own urban rooftop garden.

Michael loves the restaurant when it’s bustling and chaotic, brimming with life and laughter and happy people, but he loves it like this as well, quiet and poised on the brink. This is when he can take stock. This is when he can dream up new dishes. The photographs aren't merely there for the customers' eyes; they inspire him, too.

Today, however, inspiration’s running a little dry. Michael brews himself a pot of strong, dark coffee, adds just a little sugar and cream, and downs it like the medicine it is. He's been awake too many hours already; he was up with London's true early birds, street sweepers and delivery drivers, and sitting in a makeup chair at ITV before the sun even thought about rising.

But that's only part of the problem. He’s got one ear on the back door, waiting for its creaky hinges to tell him someone's come through it. When that signal finally comes, though, it's not James who enters, but Michael's sous chef, buttoned up against the autumn chill. Lupita is young and ferociously talented, with a culinary school background and a razor-sharp instinct for flavour. "Hiya," she says, shrugging out of a pea coat that's the same deep glossy purple as an aubergine. "Not bad on the telly, boss. Storeroom?"

"Storeroom," Michael agrees, and tops off his coffee before following her in.

Luckily, Lupita's more on her game this morning than he is, and her idea for a roasted carrot and fennel salad with a creamy yoghurt and harissa dressing sounds fantastic. Thinking of the gorgeous hue of Lupita’s coat, Michael suggests they roast purple potatoes as well, with olive oil, fresh coriander, and garlic, and he and Lupita begin hauling bulk sacks of potatoes and carrots out into the kitchen proper, for the line cooks to prep when they get in.

Michael’s going to need pumpkins, too, lots of them, if people react to the programme the way he expects they will. He and Lupita are both back in the storeroom, loading up on pumpkins and fennel respectively, when James’ head suddenly pops around the open door.

"Apples spoken for?"

"Not by me," Lupita says. "Morning, James."

"Mornin'.” James gives her a wave. “Chef Fassbender?" 

That's Michael's proper title in the kitchen, right enough, but a cheeky lift to James' eyebrow belies this bit of propriety. As it often does. Michael breathes out, grasping gratefully at this hint of normalcy. He’s regretting that coffee, now; looking at James in his faded jeans and sky blue tee, he feels keyed up enough as it is. He doesn’t need the caffeine’s help. "All yours," he finally manages.

“Ta much."

A bit of shuffling follows, ending with Michael stepping out of the narrow room to keep from crowding James as he goes in. He doesn't want to leave. He wants _Lupita_ to leave, he wants to be alone with James, he wants to know if James saw the programme, and if so, what he thought....

Michael's arms are full of pumpkins, and James is turning away to crouch down in front of the apple bin. There's no good reason to linger, but he finds himself watching as James begins filling a baking tray with apples, strong hands sorting and choosing only what he considers the best.

He supposes they have things in common, him and James.

It’s Lupita who snaps Michael out of it, coming towards him with pale green fennel stalks piled in the crook of one arm, cauliflower heads wedged in the other, and her eyes bright with something Michael hopes isn’t suppressed amusement at his expense.

Did the shuffling look as awkward as it felt? Has he been standing here too long? Did his eyes wander down to the curve of James’ arse, nestled neatly above his heels as he crouched in those snug worn jeans?

Fuck it. Michael doesn't have time to dwell on questions that answer themselves. He's got a restaurant to run.

After unloading the pumpkins, Michael moves on to the hundreds of other things that have to be done before the day starts in earnest - talking to suppliers, supervising the meat delivery, checking the phone for messages and updating the day’s reservations, and getting the pork shoulder in the oven in time for it to roast nice and slow. Six hours on low, low heat, followed by a couple more resting out of the oven will have it melt-in-your-mouth ready just in time for dinner service, and a final fifteen minute blast on high heat will give it the ultra-crispy skin everyone raves about. 

By the time he slams the oven door, the bang is just one noise among many. With opening time drawing steadily nearer, more cooks have come in, and the clamour in the kitchen is growing by the minute. This is it. Michael has just a few minutes to spare before they get slammed; today, he's going to spend those last few minutes with James.

Over at the pastry station, James is slicing the tops off a small army of Bramley apples and hollowing out the insides. Cores are being discarded in a bucket; tart chunks of apple are mounding up in a wide stainless steel mixing bowl. James’ cuts are sharp, fast, and perfect. Michael waits until he’s put the knife down to say, “What did those poor bastards do to you?”

James shoots a grin over his shoulder. “Just following in my fearless leader’s footsteps.” He gestures at his handiwork. “Apple crisp baked in an apple. Disemboweling innocent fruit and veg seemed to be the order of the day.”

“Ah.” Michael clears his throat. “You saw it, so.”

Deep down he'd known the answer to that from the second he uttered James' name on air. Funny, though. Before that moment, he'd actually wanted the answer to be yes.

“'Course I did. It was a race between my sister and my gran, seein' who could text me first.”

“Who won?”

“Joy. Gran has the arthritis.” James wiggles his fingers for emphasis.

“Right, right.” Sister and gran. Not boyfriend, not girlfriend, not husband, not wife. Were James’ words deliberate, was he answering a question Michael hadn’t dared ask? He can’t quite bring himself to press the issue and find out. James doesn’t seem to be upset or angry, and he’s not retreating from Michael: that’s the headline here, and it’s all Michael really could’ve hoped for. He should be on his way, now. He’s got things to do. Pumpkins to disembowel.

He doesn’t move. And James says, “You were right about one thing. And wrong about two more.”

“Oh?” Michael’s heart thuds. He glances around. All the cooks are at their stations; nearby, Lupita’s put Nick to work cleaning the fennel, while she whips up the yoghurt-harissa dressing. No-one’s paying the two of them any mind. “Don’t keep me in suspense, then.”

“Well. You were right, I can’t go on television.” James is looking down at his hands, measuring rolled oats into a bowl, and he doesn’t glance up. “This - it’s better for people not to know me. To leave at the end of the night thinking of no-one but the person they’re with. Or the person they want to be with. Not a thought of me anywhere in their heads.”

“I understand,” Michael says into the quiet that follows, although he’s not at all sure that he does. But what he’s hearing goes along with every instinct he’s ever had about James, everything he thought he knew: private things kept private. James in control of who knows him, and how well. 

James shoots him a sideways smile, as if he’s grateful Michael gets it. _It's better for people not to know me_ has to be one of the saddest sentences Michael's ever heard; that smile isn’t making it any better. Michael swallows. Says, “I’m ready to hear where I’m wrong.”

The pause that follows feels endless. Michael thinks - no, he’s certain - that it’s not for effect. It’s James getting up the nerve to follow through on what he’s promised. His quick, nervous lip-lick gives it away.

Somewhere across the kitchen, there's a shout. Michael turns to suss out the situation - it's nothing, just two line cooks getting in each other's way - and when he turns back, James has a tray of apples in his hands.

“You said you weren't my favourite,” James says, and in the next breath, he's gone.

::

Before Farm Table’s doors even open, there’s a line stretching down the street for the first seating, something that usually only happens before Sunday brunch. At the front of the house, Nicole, the dining room manager, catches Michael’s eye; when he gives her the nod, she unlocks the doors and the lunch rush begins. 

And Jesus, is it a rush.

But they planned for it. They’re ready. Time spent over-prepping before service pays off: having extra trimmed fillets, chopped potatoes, and hollowed pumpkins on hand helps keep the line cooks out of the weeds. Orders come in, plates go out, the board flutters with tickets, and Michael's expeditor, Evan, earns his weight in gold rushing around putting out fires (all metaphorical, thank God), doing whatever it takes to make certain all the plates for any given table land at exactly the same time, looking exactly as they should.

Michael takes a few turns around the dining room, meeting and greeting, smiling and asking people how well they enjoyed their meals. It’s something he’s normally happy to do during the wind-down at the end of a night, but today he’s so desperate to get back to work at his station that he has to fold his hands together to keep them from twitching. Still, the face time is important, particularly on a day like today. People want to have a look at the chef they saw on the telly. It’s good business to let them.

When only one pair of diners is left lingering over dessert, legs twined together beneath the table, feeding each other bites from a single spoon, James materializes next to Michael in the kitchen. There’s a plate in his hands.

The apple is gorgeous, all soft, glowing gold, skin slightly curled in spots from the warmth of the oven. Crumbly brown sugar and flaky oats spill from the top, capped by a soft scoop of vanilla ice cream and golden, dripping caramel sauce, whispering _eat me, this is it, the perfect moment, eat me now_.

Michael swallows. 

“Earlier on,” James says. “Before lunch. I said you were wrong about two things, but I didn't tell you what the second one was.”

“I noticed.” Turned it over obsessively in his mind whenever he had a moment to breathe. Same thing.

Looking away from the plate is impossible. James has never, not once, brought an entire serving of a dessert over to Michael before; those “just one bite”s have always been exactly that. One bite, plated alone, piled high on fork or spoon, delicious and tempting and over far too soon.

James must notice Michael staring, because he sets the plate down next to himself on the counter, and shifts in front of it so that he’s obscuring Michael’s view. Not completely, but enough to loosen the thrall. Licking his lips a little helplessly, Michael shifts his attention to James - not that he isn’t a temptation in his own right.

“Did you want to know what the second thing was?” James’ smile suggests he’s forgiven Michael his moment of distraction, and Michael tries to play it cool, manages to nod his head like he’s only _slightly_ dying to hear. “Okay. Second thing.” James takes a deep breath, gaze flicking away from Michael’s. “You don't just get to taste my food because you’re my boss. Believe it or not, I’ve actually made it a stipulation of my contract before, that the chef wouldn't? And they signed…. But you, I like to feed you. Would love to - to _properly_ feed you. But it has to be what you want. It has to be… it has to mean you want more of me than just my food.”

Michael’s heart pounds. He’s standing on the verge of something he doesn't understand, but he understands this: whatever he says next _matters_ , matters beyond measure. But it’s going to be all right. How can he go wrong with the simple, clear truth?

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I think it’s safe to say I do.”

“Yeah?” Quietly, so quietly. Like James is afraid to believe.

“I dressed for that interview specifically in the hopes you would find it hot, James.”

It’s a toss-up as to which is more blinding: the sudden light in James’ eyes, or the bright flash of his smile. “Good job,” he says, eyes raking down to Michael’s waist and back up again. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on the final part, I hope to have it up soon! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner at Farm Table is “reservations recommended,” and in the hours before dinner service begins, the phone doesn't stop ringing. A few of the callers actually snag a table; the rest are penciled in for dates in the upcoming weeks.

Getting his head back in the game is one of the most heroic tasks Michael's ever accomplished. 

By the third bite of apple crisp, he'd been warm all over. Waves of heat flushing his face, spreading from the column of his throat all the way down to his stomach… and not stopping. Moving down, down, down. Because of James’ proximity, he’d thought, the closeness of his body. Because of the weight of the moment.

He'd closed his eyes while he chewed, and when he'd opened them again, ready for another bite, James was gone. But the warmth was still there, lighting him up from the inside, and it's still there now, with Michael's fork and empty plate cleared away, and his mind turned resolutely to his menu.

The kitchen’s humming. The pumpkin risotto will be making a return along with most of the lunch menu, as well as some new additions: the slow-roasted pork, now perfectly tender and ready to serve; a smoked duck breast with poached shallots that, like the pork, will complement the carrot salad and the roasted purple potatoes nicely; and a second vegetarian option, a truffled gnocchi with a chanterelle mushroom ragout, that will pair well with the same fresh green salad they’ll serve with the risotto.

And, of course, there will be more desserts from James. Right now, across the kitchen, he’s piping pumpkin spice cannoli into almond florentine shells. The finished product looks gorgeous, and no doubt tastes even better; Michael’s going to get to find out later, taste the sweet, nutty cookie and the smooth, spicy cream for himself. He’ll get to eat every last crumb if he wants, and it feels incredibly safe to say that he’s going to _want_.

Michael wrenches his eyes away from James’ station, focusing on the risotto in front of him instead. Stop looking at the food. Stop imagining what it’ll taste like on his tongue, what it’ll feel like sliding down his throat. _Stop._ He has a restaurant to run.

Dinner service is wildly busy and, by all accounts, wildly successful. People order wine. They order expensive entrées. They order dessert. And they do it all with smiles on their faces that don’t slip and fade when the bill comes. 

Actually, smiles are just the beginning. Christ, the people sharing dessert are almost more than Michael can take. They’re all he can see when he makes his rounds of the dining room, wrapped up in their food, wrapped up in each other. Bodies swaying closer and closer, hands guiding forks to each other’s lips, eyes fluttering closed in pure bliss…. 

The warmth from the apple crisp is lingering. Michael’s ready for more. 

::

Every night in a restaurant kitchen is a marathon, and even after the doors have been locked behind the last customer (and the loos have been checked to make sure none have been locked in), the work goes on. Rubbish bins are emptied. Tables and chairs are wiped down. Napkins and silverware are restocked. Kitchen equipment is cooled and cleaned - cooker, fry station, grill. The dining room floor is vacuumed, and the kitchen floor is scrubbed down, leaving it shining and wet. Michael steps carefully as he performs his checks, making certain all equipment has been switched off, all food properly stored, and that all refrigerators and freezers are reading the correct temperatures.

On exiting the walk-in freezer, Michael halts in his tracks. 

At last glance, the pastry station had been as bare and sparkling as all the rest, but now two plates wait on the counter, one graced with a thick, gorgeous slice of grape and apple pie, the other a creamy pumpkin spice cannoli. It's hard to decide where to look; his mouth waters as his gaze bounces from one to the other, lingering most of all on the man perched next to them, a smile quirking his lips.

Michael's throat has gone dry. He says, hoarsely, “Everyone's gone?”

James nods. “Took you and Nicole long enough to settle up the books, didn’t it?”

Swallowing, Michael says, “Yeah. Well. You know. Big night.”

“Yes,” James says softly. “You sure this is how you want to end it?”

“Christ, James.” Michael’s hands are starting to shake. He's hungry, he’s _empty_ , but his stomach is just an afterthought. It's his hands, it’s his lips, it’s his tongue. He needs to feel, he needs to _taste_ , and Michael wishes James would come closer and guide him through this moment, and the next, and the next. It’s impossible to know where to begin. He never knew what it meant to be paralyzed by want until right now.

“You're _sure_ ,” James says even more quietly, and oh, Michael was wrong. He doesn't need direction. He knows exactly what he's going to do.

With still-shaky hands, Michael reaches for James, touching his cheek, then tracing his lips, feeling them curve into a smile far more beautiful and tempting than anything else in the kitchen. When Michael claims his first kiss, James’ mouth is so, so, soft beneath his, like a confection spun from air, and the tiny, gasping hitch of his breath is sweet as sugar. 

One taste, and Michael's already addicted. No regrets.

He slides his fingers into James’ hair, cradling his skull, kissing harder, wanting more and more; James matches his sudden intensity, grabbing Michael by the hip and reeling him in close, between his spread knees. Michael likes the feeling at once, being pinned by James, and he likes it even more when James captures his bottom lip between his own. 

Michael could go for this, too. Being _devoured_.

James breaks the kiss first, and Michael - a little lost without James’ lips - has to brace himself with a hand on the countertop. “What if you close your eyes,” James says, touching his thumb to Michael's bottom lip, “and I give you your first bite?”

Good idea. James has _good_ ideas. Michael nods, eyes already closing, lips parting. Hearing the clink of a fork against a plate, he decides James must be starting with the pie; the cannoli would be finger-food. He’s ready for the tang of the grapes, the sweetness of the apples, the buttery flakiness of the crust. 

When it hits his tongue, Michael makes a low, soft sound, and holds the bite there to savour, drawing out the moment of anticipation melting into reality. In the way of all truly remarkable food, it’s everything he imagined and more, heightened past the point of expectation, something sublime and unique that could have been made by no other hands.

James’ fingers slip under his chin, gently nudging it up, and Michael swallows and opens once more.

Everything after that is a blur of flavor and sensation, with the sweet, firm guidance of James’ hands on his face carrying him through it. Michael remembers unbuttoning his chef’s jacket, but he doesn't remember pushing it from his shoulders or hearing it hit the floor, probably because shedding it did nothing to tame the fire rising inside him. His body is a column of pure, greedy heat, and when the tines of the fork finally rest against the plate for the last time, Michael drops his forehead down to James’ shoulder. His chest shudders as he draws in air. Unconsciously, he runs his tongue over his lips for one final burst of sweetness.

“What about you.” Michael struggles for both breath and words. “Does it - when you taste your own food, is it like -”

“Let's find out,” James says, before thumbing open Michael’s mouth and slipping his tongue in deep.

Someone groans. It’s probably Michael. It’s all too good: the weight of James’ tongue in his mouth. The warmth of it. And then there’s the press of James’ body against his, which only gets tighter and better when James hooks his heels together behind Michael’s thighs.   
James is hard against Michael's stomach, and when Michael rocks forward, rubbing their cocks together, he gasps into Michael’s mouth. It doesn’t entirely answer Michael's question, but it tells him what he most needs to know - James is into this. Whether it's the magic of the flavors still lingering in Michael's mouth or the more ordinary magic of heat and desire, James is right here with him. Wanting. 

_Needing_.

“What do you say?” James whispers, shaping the words against Michael’s lips. “Next course?”

_Yes._ His mouth waters at the thought.

Seeing James lift the cannoli - the long roll of it - kicks something in Michael’s hindbrain, hard. He opens easily, eagerly, and swallows back a whimper when the sweet pumpkin cream hits his tongue. James feeds him slowly, pulling the cannoli away as Michael chews each bite, then nudging it back between his lips for the next, and the next. Michael tries not to gobble, to hold to James’ pace, but he ends up nipping at James’ fingers, taking in everything he can and then some.

“James,” Michael whispers, swallowing down the last morsel. He's desperately hard, but it's a good, throbbing ache. “When you said ‘feed me properly,’ please tell me you meant your cock.”

“You sayin’ you’d like that?”

“ _James_.”

“It’s only that I'm a fan of your work as well, Chef Fassbender. Could just as well be your turn to feed me.”

Michael’s cock gives a very interested twitch, but he shakes his head firmly. Later.... What his body’s craving right now is James’ weight in his mouth, and his mind’s squarely on board. Michael _likes_ focusing on his partner first, indulging them to fullest while riding the edge of his own need, letting it grow, and grow….

He tugs at James’ waist, and James slides easily off the counter, surging up to kiss Michael again. 

It's a moment to savor, feeling the compact lines of James’ body fit fully against his for the first time; Michael does, running his hands down James’ back, pulling him close, committing to memory every inch from the strength of his shoulders to the curve of his arse.

When they come up for air again, they're both breathing hard, and James’ back is pressed up against the freezer door.

“Yes,” Michael says, “yes, just like that,” and sinks down to his knees.

He takes his time at first, slowly rucking up James’ shirt and easing down his zipper, and after that Michael moves straight into nuzzling James through his boxers, loving the firmness of him beneath his cheek and lips. When Michael mouths over his tip, James makes a high, breathy noise that makes Michael’s heart beat faster.

Pulling back, Michael pauses for a long moment, appreciating the sight in front of him: James thick and twitching. Then he slides James’ boxers over his hips and pushes them, along with his trousers, all the way down to the floor.

Still unhurried, Michael leans in and presses his mouth to the base of James’ cock, leisurely kissing his way up the shaft, drinking in the feel of James’ flushed skin. He slides his hands up James’ thighs and grips his waist just before parting his lips and softly closing them over the head of James’ cock.

His eyes fall closed. It's wonderful. It isn't enough.

Fumbling slightly, Michael reaches up to find James’ hands and guide them into his hair. To let James to set the pace. To let James to take control. 

James feeds him slowly, pushing his cock in inch by inch until Michael's mouth is wonderfully full. James’ fingers dig into the back of his skull, his cock throbs on Michael’s tongue, and Michael begins to move, sucking and tasting, desperately leashing himself to match the gentle roll of James’ hips.

Distantly, he hears himself whine, soft and low. He clutches at the backs of James’ thighs, at his arse, letting his desperation seep out through his fingertips while his mouth slides deliberately along James’ shaft. It’s clear that James, too, is barely holding himself in check; glancing up treats Michael to a view of his closed eyes, his flushed face, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. 

Michael swallows, a long, slow motion of his throat, and James jerks and gasps. That’s all the encouragement he needs to do it again, this time dragging a hand around to cup James’ balls, and James swears in a voice so low Michael’s cock throbs and lifts, begging to be touched.

It's not the first time Michael’s thoroughly enjoyed giving head, and he's sure it won't be the last, but there's something new about the way his body is so hungry for James’ release. About the way it _wants_.

He pulls back, leaving James’ cock to hang heavy and free in the air. “To be clear, I want you to come down my throat,” Michael says, voice husky to his own ears.

James’ fingers tighten in Michael’s hair, and his cock twitches. He says, “Praise be to fuckin’ God,” and groans when Michael’s lips close over his cock again. 

Swallowing, swallowing, Michael takes him in. Time loses meaning, after that, Michael’s world becoming nothing more nor less than James in his mouth, James on his tongue, and the hot, driving beat of his own blood. He's so _hard_. When James stiffens and comes, spilling in a perfect rush, Michael takes it. He takes it all.

He holds James in his mouth for as long as he can, and by the time James slips softly out, Michael's hands are already on his own trousers, working the zipper. James’ taste coats his palate - he gets his fist around his own cock - he _needs_ -

“Don't you dare come before I taste you.” 

Michael chokes, freezing in place. The low command is enough to make his cock pulse thickly beneath his fingers.

“Sit down,” James says, and nudges Michael's legs apart when he does. When James’ lips close around his cock, Michael’s hips buck, and it feels like barely a heartbeat later that he's crying out and coming in James’ warm mouth.

And James pulls off, licking his lips, and opens his mouth, his eyes bright -

“If you make a joke about fast food, I swear to God -”

“Not sure how you're gonna stop me,” James says, but it's actually rather simple: Michael just palms his cheek, and kisses any further words straight off his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

“Bit weird having a chef on today, don’t you think?”

“Bit weird, yeah.” If Nyla Newsome and her radio co-host Gabe have decided to agree upon something, then Michael can only assume, based on what he knows of their drive-time program, that they’re moments away from taking the piss out of him. “Not like they get to eat any of his food, is it?”

“Or smell it.”

“Or see it.”

“Listeners, you would definitely drool if you could see it.”

“That’s true. Gabe has this massive drop gathering at the corner of this mouth right now.”

Michael leans in close to the microphone. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For a late afternoon guest spot, he’d decided to bring in Farm Table’s versions of some classic pub snacks: black pudding scotch eggs with spicy mustard, blue cheese and onion jam rarebit, and from James, a decadent sticky toffee pudding with rum-soaked raisins and fresh-made custard that Gabe couldn’t keep his eyes off of.

“We _could_ tuck in, then tell you and all the poor sods stuck out there in traffic what we think of your food,” Nyla says, “but instead, we thought, you know, we’re here to give the people a voice.”

“And in this case, it’ll be your voice.”

“We’ve been on the internet. We’ve been on the Yelp.”

“We’ve definitely Yelped.”

“And we’ve -”

“Now, let’s be honest, Nyla, our trainees -”

“Our trainees have selected some reviews they feel really speak to what your restaurant is all about.”

Nyla’s eyes are twinkling. Michael leans back in his seat. “Yeah? All right. Hit me.”

“Oh, Chef Fassbender, no.” 

“You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Don’t you think they hear our gobs enough? We’re going to let you do the honours.”

A trainee materializes at Michael's shoulder with an iPad in his hands. There's a screenshot of a Yelp reviewed displayed, and a quick tap and scroll shows there are plenty more waiting in the camera roll. Michael clears his throat dramatically, then dives in:

“Have you ever - oh Christ.” Michael's skimmed just far enough ahead to fully understand what Nyla and Gabe have in store. “Have you ever held utter bliss in your mouth? Well, I did at Farm Table. The roasted duck breast with brown butter brioche was -” Michael breaks off. “You're certain I can read this on air?”

“Absolutely.” 

“We like keeping Stan the Censor Man on his toes.” Nyla waves across the radio booth at her producer, who rolls his eyes and waves back.

“All right…. The duck with brown butter brioche was _orgasmic_ , and then, and THEN - that second one’s in all caps - came dessert... they called it a pumpkin spice cannoli, but I need to be real with you. It was a -” Michael coughs - “a sex cannoli. I still lust after it every night. Can I give this place ten stars? I’M GONNA - more caps lock, there. Then it’s star emoji, star emoji, star emoji… you get the picture.”

“Vividly,” Gabe says, while Nyla laughs with her head thrown back, and Michael can't help but laugh along with her, even while his face is on fire. Hopefully, the shade of red his cheeks are sporting is a bog standard “reading soft erotica out loud” shade and not anything more… revealing.

GemmaTheGr8 from Hammersmith is right. It _is_ a sex cannoli.

“Viagra better watch out,” Nyla says, “sounds like you lot are giving it a run for its money.”

Michael grins. “No prescription necessary.”

“Listeners,” Nyla says, tone shifting into something slightly more serious, “in a moment we’re going to talk with the chef about urban gardening, eating locally, and how to survive the winter if you want to be a localvore but you also think cold-season vegetables are the worst things going.”

“Does that mean he's going to tell me how to cook sprouts and like it?”

“Gabe, I think it does. But first, Chef Fassbender, seriously now, those Yelpers paint quite a picture. I have to ask, on behalf of everyone - exactly what the hell is going on over at that restaurant of yours?”

It's not James’ extraordinary food that Michael thinks of in that moment, but everything else: his private smile, the one that's sometimes soft and sometimes wicked and always reaches the depths of his eyes; the quiet, husky warmth of his voice as he and Michael curl into bed together after a long night in the kitchen; and his strong hands, covered in pastry flour, kneading and shaping dough into something as remarkable and perfect as he is.

There’s only one answer to Nyla’s question. With a private smile of his own, Michael says, “Magic.”


End file.
